Golden Gazed
by DanDanTheWritingFan
Summary: In which, Harry gets bitten by a vampire and awakes, three days later, to a coven of golden-eyed vampires. Or, the one where Voldemort and the British ministry end up regretting a lot of their choices. Edited as of 25.4.2017
1. Bitten

**Title:** Golden Gazed.  
 **Disclaimer:** Neither Harry Potter nor Twilight belong to me.  
 **AN (as of 25.4.2017):** So, as I said on chapter four - now three- I edited and then combined chapters one and two, as short as they were. I hope you all don't mind!

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 **Golden Gazed**

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 **Part One**

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 **Bitten**

 **.**

His eyes are a deep brilliant burgundy. His hair a perfect halo of blonde. His face, from what can be seen in the artificial light, is superficially faultless. He looks to be an angel in appearance, in movement and in grace, but Harry knows differently. It is not hard to, after all; he is neither stupid nor illiterate, and has opened many a defence book in his time at Hogwarts.

This man - this being - before him, who glides like walking death and appears so quickly that he blurs, is clearly a vampire.

A creature that is rumoured to bring naught but death to those like he - a creature who, in less than a single fascinated second, brings nothing but fire to him. A fire that burns bright and fierce, like a blazing fiend fire, in the side of his neck and does not begin to fade.

"Incendio." Is the only thing he can think of to say. The only help four years of literary texts and professors can give him in that moment - though, in all honesty, he has to admit that in of itself is an absolute miracle. The majority of his defence teachers, after all, have been pitiful. Not that their collective improvement would have altered much; vampires, in vast detail, aren't studied until sixth year. Something about ministry policies and scaring children, needlessly.

He finds himself, again, for the third time that night, being annoyed at the minister and his apparent incompitence.

He does not know, really, how long he is there in the beings clutches. How long, exactly, the man spends drinking his blood or if he even gets any at all - but it does not matter. It is only a small fraction of a second between Harry's intent being thought, his spell being whispered and his magic reacting and responding, fueled by his fear and his panic.

His would-be-killer flinches back, seemingly wide-eyed and horrified, with a painful hiss echoing out from behind the suddenly appearing orange and blue flickers of bright immense flame.

He feels, more than anything, absolute relief at the sight, though he does have to purposely ignore the tight squirm that starts in his chest at the pained emotion that is crossing the vampires face. Has to ignore the guilt that rises up on his own features - _imagine going to the fridge_ , he thinks dazedly, _and getting attacked by a burger_ \- but the majority of him only cares that he is still alive.

In absolute agony now, yes, and with a hole in his neck. But still, he is alive to feel it.

 _The vampire is stepping away now,_ his brain supplies, as he tries to push away his own pain, with less and less success as the seconds pass. He notes as he does, with a new blurry state of mind, that the man is still alight and is burning far faster than even Harry's neck is.

Burning so fast, in fact, that he is rapidly becoming ash where he stands.

A part of Harry, the part that is still relatively coherent, is slightly amazed and horrified at that. Is that really what he is capable of under threat of death? Is that truly how strong his magic is in the heat of the moment? That he can reduce a near impenetrable being to a pile of darkened grey ash, in less than a minute?

He slumps in a complicated mixture of pain, relief, guilt and sadness, as he witnesses the last of his fire disappear along with the threat, and sinks, almost accidentally, to the dirty floor of the side street he is in.

Suddenly, the dementor attack and getting kicked out of his Aunt and Uncle's house earlier that evening, seems like the very least of his problems.

 **.**

 _To say this is pain,_ he reckons, through gritted teeth, clenched fists and sweaty skin, a minute or an hour later, as he drags himself back up and holds out a hand for the Knight Bus, _is now the greatest understatement._

He feels as if he has basalisk venom running through his veins again, only this time two minutes of agony before death is not enough. This - this is _torture_ , ongoing and un-ending. It is painful, agonising, enough for him to hope for oblivion to claim him, but it is too much, too consuming, to be able to succumb to it.

Thankfully though, in a way, as Harry has no intentions of passing out just yet. Even if it _is_ a crucio to him, yet so much worse, for it is far longer and there is no one there to grant him a reprieve from it. Even Voldemort, he feels, would have happily given him that, if only to gloat over his needing it.

It is what makes him realise that he honestly does need someones immediate help - that he is in so much pain, consumed by so much fire and flame, that even Voldemort abruptly seems like a good idea to him.

He has no experience with any of this; he has no idea on how to deal with a vampire bite, has no idea of what it even does to a person.

 _Is it poison?_ He enquires of himself, brain sluggishly trying to think. _Is it something that causes immense pain to hold the victims still?_

He doesn't know, never really thought to learn, and so he needs someone who does know.

He wonders - with that impressively deteriorating level of coherency - while he waits, shaking but aloft, if anyone is even looking for him yet. If anyone is watching for him and worrying for him. He realises though, quite dejectedly, that they probably wouldn't even know that they had need to, would they?

Professor Dumbledore will still be expecting him - _rather niavely concidering the Dursley's,_ Harry decides grimly - to be at Privet Drive, still tucked safely away behind the blood wards, in his room and in his bed.

 _It is just too bad,_ he adds, flitting teasingly along the lines of consciousness, only to be wrenched back from it, _that no one ever thinks to ask Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon what they think about that - or me._

Not that he wanted to stay anyway - as if he ever wanted to return, in the first place.

He hears a sudden, loud and echoing bang _,_ and his thoughts get immediately disrupted by Stan, the conductor, who is jumping off the bus with quick words of how "'Orrible" he looks, and Harry's own randomly appearing fears of how Death Eaters and Voldemort could attack them all, because of him.

 _He has no other choice, though,_ he thinks, _but to board it and to risk it._

He can not fly by broom, as he did in his attempt to find The Burrow, and he can not go by foot, or by taxi, or by any other means, magical or otherwise.

He shoves the galleons that have been in his moneybag all year long into Stan's hands, not bothering to check the large amount, and ignores whatever the man says in return, choosing to use the last of his effort to pull at his trunk and broom, and haul it up the step instead.

He knows that Stan is still talking to him, or about him, that Ernie is replying, and that other people on board are staring at him, whispering, with mixtures of surprise, worry, incredulousness and apprehension. He can only guess at what the emotions mean as they flitter passed, but he does not care to do so.

"Hogwarts." He gets out, collapsing in a chair, or in a bed, or on the floor. He does not bother to look, and does not think he could even if he tried to. He is in too much agony and is far too exhausted.

He tries to concentrate, anyway.

"You 'eard 'im, Ern. 'E needs to go 'Ogwarts." The blur where Stan is says, an odd amount of concern colouring his voice. "We'll take you there first, won't we, Ern? Don't fink no one'll mind, what wif the blood, an all. Though, I gotta say, you sure you don't want ter go St Mungo's, instead? You don't look good, 'Arry."

"No." Harry mouths, or says. He isn't quite sure which. "Not Mungo's. Death Eaters."

He is sure that he is speaking it aloud then, when people gasp and one blob in particular tries to say something to him. Only, the sentence doesn't get out, the voice fading before it really begins.

 _But then again, everything else seems to fade with it, so maybe it is just me that is finally fading?_

"Oi! 'Arry! We gotcha 'ere, 'Arry." He hears from far away, though he barely registers it. "We've even shouted for a staff member to 'elp you along. It's the strict one, though. Fink you'll be alright wif her?"

... Hogwarts?

"Dumbledore?" He half-whispers questioningly. His throat is seeming far drier than it even feels - an impossability, surely?

"Dumbledore's up there too, I fink. But you got McGonagal for now. Kicked me from 'er class in fifth year. 'Ere, 'Arry? Tell us if you die wontchu, 'Arry?"

"Yeah." Harry manages to croak, the colours of the world blurring blessedly to black.

 **.**

He stirs occasionally within his cocooned darkness and hears things as he travels through it. His nerves flare with anger, his heart pounds and his skin gets hotter and colder at the same time.

He listens to the sound of a familiar professor finding him, of other people panicking and others mournfully wishing him well. He hears the sound of the lilting trill of Pheonix song, and drowns in the feelings of hope that comes with it. He even feels the number of potions that are quickly poured down his neck, to no obvious effect. He burns alive, regardless - regardless of anything they do, anything they try.

He is borderline conscious of being moved too, when he is taken to the worried murmurs of the people he knows, of angry godfathers and heartbroken loved ones - and, at some point, conscious enough to hear the entrence of people with unfamiliar voices, which sound beautiful and worrying to his ears. They sound like sweetness incarnate yet they carry worrying words, and hold no thrummings within the cavities of their chests.

 _No heartbeats,_ he reckons confused, after hours or years of his burnings. The hours or years it has taken him to slowly regain some semblance of any kind of competent clarity. Some capablity of understanding.

 _And isn't that a strange thought to have?_ He ponders dazedly, eyes flickering behind closed eyes, but never opening them. Strange, as he has not been able to hear anyone's heartbeats before. Hasn't been able to note the beating, the pounding, never mind witnessing anyone speaking without one.

But then, he notes, decades or centuries later, that it is nowhere nearly as strange to him as the new type of fire, a differnt one, that flicks menacingly at his throat, with fire and fury, whenever he does hear one.

It is a similiar pain to the burnings, he can tell, only it is concentrated directly in his throat, all at once. And really, unlike before - unlike that other flame that strips even his bones bare - this one offers a reprieve; all he has to do, he thinks, is crack open the skin which hides the beats, and take what is inside to get it.

He gasps for breath at the mere idea, aching and hurting twice as hard, and automatically sees imagined crimson tides flowing directly into his mouth. It causes his throat, already fueled terribly, to roar even more with painful agonising life. It happens to the point, so fully and so painfully, that his hands naturally want to clutch at the closest beat and tear and _bite_ and-

\- he finds he can't do any of it: rush, clutch, tear _or_ bite.

He is not sure why, exactly, but he realises, suddenly panicked, that he physically can not move. Not his hands, his arms or even his eyelids. Nothing moves when he tells it to - there is no hope to ease his throat, there is no movements to be had.

He dimly recalls, as the majority of him fumes and panics, that it has nothing to do with the flames either; after all, it hadn't halted his steps before _,_ had it?

 _Unless it is because the fire is in his heart now?_ He questions himself, almost hopefully.

 _The one that is causing it to stutter and sprint like an athlete in the Olympics,_ another part of his mind adds.

 _And isn't that odd too,_ he contemplates, wanting to tilt his head. That he can suddenly - apparently - catergorise his brain into layers of thought and into different section.

That is not normal for him, is it? It is not normal how he is still able to listen in, partially fascinated and partially wary, to those other unknown voices, while he flares and thinks, both - and has been listening, somehow, ever since he first somewhat stirred into reality.

How he listens to their conversations with the familiar voices - the ones where he is always the main part of the discussion. Where words flow and questions are asked, and they wonder how he is, if he is still in pain and how long is left to his _change_.

All of their voices, he knows, are not at all close by. They are so vivid, so clear and so _loud_ to him though _,_ that they may as well be _._

He admits no where near as loud, or as obvious, or as insistent, as the wings that he hears shuffling, moving and hovering, practically on top of him though. It fascinates him even more, that sound, with its rapid flutter of a heartbeat and its soft firm comforting lyrical songs. It somehow even manages to sooth him slightly, as it informs him that it could not ever be - is not ever meant to be - considered food.

It is blood, the creature seems to agree with him, but it is also a greater fire and flame and could destroy him easily enough given cause - and therefore, he should not give it one.

 _It is a warning not to eat it_ , he thinks, almost amused by the fact, even as his throat burns with such an intensity that he debates whether he should try to do so anyway, once he can move. Anything to stop the flames licking at the skin beneath his neck.

Although, why he is under the impression that any live bird, winged creature or person can help it - can stop the burn, can be sustenance for him - abruptly makes him uneasy. And obviously not because it is disgusting to him, but because it simply _isn't_.

That isn't normal for him either, is it?

 _ **Blood, blood, blood,**_ a part of him suddenly thinks, hopeful and tense, and those images of glorious red and warmth flicker through his mind more clearly.

It is not even a millisecond later, feeling almost thoroughly distraught, that it clicks. Because it makes sense, doesn't it? After everything, every change, every feeling, every thought he is having.

All of his thoughts zone in on the single realisation; his throat is blazing, his mouth is watering, his hearing is brilliant, and his heart is failing. He needs blood...

 _I guess an undrained bitten human creates another vampire..._

It is thoroughly horrifying to him, but he finds it is no less true for stating it.

 **.**

He tries to control his urge to drink, after he understands it. He hardly manges any success at it, though. That is, until he no longer has to outwardly try.

It is sudden, really, but one second he is there, thoughts of gulping down fountains of blood claiming his mind utterly, and the next he no longer hears anything outside of his space. There is no heartbeats sounding, no words, no flutter of wings, and no one sounds or smells like blood.

He assumes - and correctly so - that one of the other voices, one of the familiar adults wandering about this place, must have put up silencing charms and scent blockers. He is both immediately thankful for it and absolutely annoyed.

 _It is wrong,_ a part of him insist furiously. _It is wrong, it is uncomfortable, and it is outrageous to have his senses cut off._

His throat, however, doesn't seem to burn half as much as it did, and for that he is thankful.

He still wants to drink - will drink, everything in him insists, and he agrees - but he is fairly confident now that he will no longer try to immediately harm those he knows he cares for. He can at least pretend they are not giant blood bags, after all, for they have neither human sounds or scents anymore.

He debates whether he should try and take another deep breath in, if only to famiarise himself with this lesser burn. He easily decides on how bad - how great - an idea that is though. He seems to remember that vampires can smell far further than humans can, and who knows how far the scents are blocked off? Breathing in miles upon miles of scents from outside of this space would be a bad - a so very good - idea.

He barely keeps his breath held, thanks to his old views warring within him.

Not that it currently matters; he is frozen regardless of wants or needs anyway.

He can't even fully focus on other things any more - on conversations, on things that don't instantly cause siliva to pool in his mouth and fantises to enter his mind. He only manages to distract himself slightly, when he listens to his own rapid heart beat stuttering on dangerously.

Especially as it finally, literally, causes his back to arch up off the bed he is on, like a helicopter rising in flight. Especially as the fire that is pulsating there, turns red hot and far greater than before. Now that it creates its own grande crecendo of supernovas and wild fire, comparing easily to his fiery throat.

His heart goes on though, sounding fast, tired and harsh. It sounds much jumpier, slower and broken with each new pump.

He somehow knows that this is it. That this is going to be the end of any human DNA he has left. That this is the end of his always-been-there heartbeat and afterwards, he is going to be a vampire in all ways.

He waits hopelessly for his next beat of life, clinging to it's sound - only he does not need to.

His arched back simply falls back onto the bed, and there is only silence.

 **.**


	2. Rising

**.**

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 **Golden Gazed**

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 **Part One**

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 **.**

 **Rising**

 **.**

The door to his room sounds as he lies there, listening disoriented to the utter nothingness that echoes through to him, and it does so slowly, quietly and only to a certain half way point.

He notes it with a half ear, while the thought that is now a vampire ricochets through the whole of his new extremely large stunned mind.

 _It could be a threat though...?_ His new instincts hiss whisperingly at him, distracting him and setting him on edge - and abruptly, he wants to respond to it. His mind empties of all else, and he wants to run or to fight, or to stand and to protect, but he knows, with a creeping angry fear, that nothing has changed; he still can not move. It is obvious that it was not his burning heart that was the cause now.

He can't so much as even flare his nostrils in response to the new expanding emotions he feels swirling in his chest, as he notes how vunerable he actually is.

He can't do anything - anything at all - but silently lie there, hands wanting to claw, teeth wanting to bite, thirst wanting to be satisfied, and responses wanted to be acted upon. All he can do while he waits for whatever, whoever it is, that could apparently be threating his very existence.

 _They have no heartbeats,_ he thinks naturally as he does, mentally cataloguing the sounds or lack there of - it is an almost automatic response. To focus on his other senses, the ones that can still be of use to him. His hearing and his sense of touch.

He hears two different footsteps to his right; one is light, rythmic, even footed and almost bouncy, whereas the other one is slower, heavier and somewhat nervous in its pacing.

 _So the sound is only cut off from outside my space,_ he learns, and also realises that the first one comes far closer to him, while the second footfall only takes two mere shakey steps within.

 _ **Prey. Blood.**_ Is his next immidate jump, and his throat lights up yet again, fast and fierce.

 _But maybe it is also a friend...?_ Is whispered next, at the back of his mind, just below the burst of raging. It reminds him quietly that there is familiar people here, in this place, and Harry mentally sighs and silently accepts it.

 _Ever if it does not help my flaring throat any,_ the majority of him states furiously, afterwards.

"Finite." The prey friend whispers, the voice steady, familiar and female - definitely a friend then, he concludes, feeling dejected by it - resulting in a strange woosh of barely there movement. It twirls in the air and flies towards him. He feels it, the disturbance - how strange.

 _Magic?_ He thinks, remembering almost soothingly - at least, he does until it hits him on the arm, two thirds up, and then he is furious and confused instead. His emotions wirlwind within him; why did she shoot a spell at him? How _dare_ she shoot a spell at him! Isn't he supposed to be a friend?

Barely a moment later though, the sudden anger pales to something else. It is all satisfied relief and triumph, as his body releases, quickly and gloriously, back in to his own control.

...Finite. _Was I under the body-bind then?_

He feels a sudden burst of gratefulness to the woman, thinking back to a blurry lesson, in a cold classroom, and then to another time, when a boy hit a red carpeted floor, arms hitting his sides, and stayed there for hours on end. Hours which only ended, in truth, because a teacher came along to help.

 _Finite_ , he thinks again, marveling over the small word and how it can help so utterly. He is now in control of himself again; he can now react as he pleases and can move as he wants.

His eyes abruptly open with the single thought desire, and his hands claw, his body arches and his feet meet hard wood floor. The movement is quick, fluid, silent and deadly. Every part of the threat that the denfense books suggest vampires are. Suggest that _he_ now is _._

And more than that, he realises astonished, he can actually _see_. He can see _everything_ around him. He notices the dust motes attached to the ceiling. He sees the small cracks within the walls. He notes the texture of the dirty paint covering the practically perfect indented wood. He notices it all and does so easily, efficiently and clearly.

He watches, head suddenly tilted with amazement, the entire small room.

Though, in all honesty, his eyes track the familiar sounding woman more so. He knows he knows her, even if she looks different to his new eyes and is still fairly obviously a blood source. She is so obviously older than he thought, with the gentle wrinkles around her forehead, around her multifaceted brown eyes and the splitting of her mouth. Her brilliantly fine hair is even dotted with grey strands, hidden among the many tints of red. He easily sees all of the marks on her skin, the small fine hairs, the specks of grease on her old worn fraying robes and the dust within her hair - and more enticingly, the red veins that swim directly under her cheeks.

She retreats rather uneasily, with a surprised intake of breathe, at his thorough inspection.

Not runs, he admits, because he knows this new him would have surely chased after her - sounding heartbeat or no, forced questioning control or no - had she done anything like that. But either way, scuttle, walk or skip, he sees her so so clearly. Sees that she is leaving, one shaky foot fall at a time. Sees that he lets her, tensed and longing, if only for old times sake.

 _It is for the best..._ He thinks slowly, holding himself still, even as his eyes become entranced with the sudden paleness of her face.

His hands cletch - and then the door is firmly shutting, thankfully for her, and a small distraction is granted.

He realises he is left alone with the other one, the one that is seemingly a possible threat. The one that he is both trying to ignore and is also focusing on far greater too, incase he - _they_ \- become _that_ ones prey instead.

His eyes narrow and he tenses even more, immediately settling into a crouch, ready for any attack if it comes. It is all instinct, a thought triggered and a reaction followed. The attack doesn't seem to come, however; she just stands where she is, rocking cautiously on her feet.

"I'm Alice." The maybe threat says carefully, strange yellow eyes watching him with a list of emotions he cares nothing for. He notes that her vampiric alto voice is all smooth music and tinkling chimes, though. He wonders, briefly, what he sounds like now - will he sound like that?

"And you're Harry." The vampire adds almost deliberately, with an honest smile on her pale looking face.

His also notes that she isn't showing a single tooth either, snarl or otherwise, as she does so. Not that necessarily means anything, Harry knows - and neither does the fact she is no taller that five feet, or looks to be around his age.

Kindness or smallness does not necessarily mean no threat. He has learnt that and learnt it well.

The rational part within him - the part that is not all New Instincts and is still remembered logic and rational comprehention - feels the need to remind himself that she could have killed him, if she had any urge to do so, far easier before he regained his motion. So, perhaps not at all a threat?

"Harry James Potter, to be specific." Alice continues, as if his internal battle on whether to attack her and run isn't happening at all. As if a part of him isn't ignoring her completely, wanting to re-find his blurry best friends mother and drain her dry.

"Born to James and Lily Potter, on July 31st, 11:59 pm, in the year of 1980. Your godfather is Sirius Black, your best friends are Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, and you are a wizard, currently in a house full of loved ones."

 _Those things are true,_ he reckons, head tilting - though he wonders where she is going with any of this. Alhough the ending does make his thoughts flicker; magical secret shops, with there are abundance of blood pops, blood lollies and sweets, alike.

Alice pauses, a grimace of genuine apology twisting her lips, and re-catches his attention utterly. He blinks, eyes narrowing, as she steps forwards, and he suddenly wants to snarl at her for it. That alone is enough to stop him though.

Mainly, as he can almost hear Hermione, the blurry brunette in his memories, scald him for the rudeness of the very thought of it - of being rude to anyone not being rude inturn. He feels a burst of confusion at it; why does matter to him?

Before him, the vampire's smile widens, all caution abruptly disappearing from her body, and she speeds forward, as fast as he is probably capable off now, before holding up - much to his feared snarled anger and then amused bewilderment - a vivid sparkly purple ribbon.

 _That is not much of a weapon,_ his brain whispers, as she halts before him, buzzing with sudden energy.

"It's a port-key." She explains, looking at it awed. His relief quickly flutters and perishes; he sees fuzzy painful memories of golden cups and graveyards and life blood taken. He groans instantly, clutching harshly at his neck, while the images enter his mind; perfect flowing red, dripping down the paleness of his arm. He gulps back the oncoming fire, and hisses aloud.

"And it's going to take us to a place where we can hunt." She finishes with rushed words, apologetic expression in place. And before he can do anything but want to snarl at her, want to inhale a deep searching breath, purple is suddenly catching at his shoulder and there is a tugging at his navel.

They disappear instantaniously.

 **.**

"Sorry. I'm sorry!" He hears Alice say rapidly, as she lets go and retreats from his tense ready-to-spring form.

He manages to land steadily on the balls of his feet, in this unknown place, yet feels completely and utterly off balanced, all the same. His senses have reappeared, it seems, only with a vengeance. He smells and hears everything around him with such a clarity, it overwhelmes him utterly.

He is in a forest, that much is obvious. There are trees, tall and unyeilding, in every direction, covering the majority of the blue sky line in leafy shelter. They are all around him, each dark brown barked, with green moss, and creatures, tiny and quiet, living within them. He hears them all; the soft patters of their movements, the tiny squeaks that is their unique sounds, and the little pounds of their hearts.

In all honesty, it has more siliva filling his mouth and the burning to increase, only it is no use. Those small creatures are no use to him. To his thirst. To his hunger. They are all too _small._

His nostrils flare at the passing truth, and more scents of all kinds come rushing towards him; some that are barely important to him, some that he already, somehow, recognises, and others - others his throat burns completely for. Those ones, he realises, are the ones that he needs - and he does _need_ it. It is like everything in him will go mad, will suffer and wither away, until he is nothing but a crazy blood thirsty husk, without it.

The thought barely leaves his mind, when he is already moving, regardless of possible outcomes of who he is going to kill to satisfy himself. He is already beyond that. Something else within him has already taken over. He runs faster than he ever has, dodging out of the ways of trees, small flowers, mushrooms and the odd branch or a root sticking out of the ground.

Other animals halt as he passes, shaking and quivering, and stinking with what he thinks is primal fear. He doesn't care for them, however, sweet burning scents or not. He wants whatever he is running after, whatever it is he is running for. The thing that smells big and brilliant and warm.

It is far sooner than he expects when he stands before it, when he is already on it, hands clasping around its black furred neck, teeth already sinking into its easy skin and its blood entering his mouth. It is everthing he wanted; it is warm, oddly metallic, and absouletly satisfying. It eases his throat as it passes, cooling it wonderfully while it is there, and he is sure that he is whimpering, and tightens his grip.

It feels as if it is barely a moment before it is gone, though. When the creature is empty and it's blood is within him instead. Its eyes are dead, he knows, and he is still wanting more of it. He snarls, barely realising that he is.

His nostrils flare again and he smells another, to the right of where he is. He leaps and runs until he finds it. And once that one has gone too, he finds another. Then another, and another after that. He almost feels disgusted that they hold so litte, compared to what he needs.

It is only as he starts to slow, begins to feel full and his stomach seems to slosh, that he realises that it is a somewhat horrible thought to have. He still disregards it regardless, and finds another nice smelling thing to consume.

Another animal, he realises, once the entirity of his bloodlust - so very understated in the DADA books - wanes completely.

He finds it odd, really, as he collapses onto the forest ground, practically bursting, that the only sad thing he finds about it all, about all the death he has just created, is that he ate a stag and liked it to the point where he ate at least two more.

He wonders if his father would mind and that makes him feel sad for a whole other reason - but he doesn't feel guilty. His brain has to admit that it isn't different, is it? From being a human and eating what he desires in the form of meat, to being a vampire and drinking the blood he desires instead. To fighting a Dark Lord or Basilsk and killing for his life and others, and killing to eat and survive.

It is not different, he assures himself, collapsing to the ground. It _isn't._

 **.**

"So." Alice says from above him - and it is Alice he knows, had instantly recognised. It is almost funny, in a horrofying and amazing sort of way, that he knew it was her from her bouncy odd foot falls, miles away. That he knew it was her from her own fascinating not-food scent that fills his nose. Knew it just as easily as he knows it is her now, up close, from her unusual voice.

He raises his head to stare at her, but otherwise doesn't move from how he is, on the forest floor and sprawled.

He decides, with a quick contemplation, that his early rational thought is correct; if she had wanted him dead she wouldn't have let him live as he changed, nor would his friends have - he hopes - allowed her access to him. She definitely wouldn't have helped him eat and become stronger. It defies all logic, really, he reckons, if she was trying to kill him.

He still watches her intensely though, as his instincts demand of him, and takes the time to actually digest her appereance. Now that his thirst, and what he decides is the majority of his normal initial instinctual paranoia, is stated.

He admits that he probably looks a lot like her now. This random happy stranger that he has never seen before. That he probably has the same pale skin and the perfect features that is common for all vampires. They both have similar looking dark hair too, he notices, with hard lithe looking bodies, and although he is taller than her small height, it is only by six or so inches. _They could pass for relatives,_ he thinks uncomfortable.

"Are you full now?"

She smiles at him hopefully - again, with no teeth - and jumps from the tree branch she is walking along to the floor. It is a graceful leap, one he wonders if he can imitate with his new improved body.

Harry frowns - just a little - thinking about her question, before taking another mental note of his sloshy feeling.

"I think I feel full." He agrees - and then pauses startled. He does not know which is stranger: that he sounds so much like his old self or that he sounds so much different. It is still his voice somehow, with some undercurrent tenor. It is just deeper, more lyrical and a great more enchanting.

He hears an amused musical laugh echo out to him and he sees Alice folding herself neatly onto the ground. Her eyes swim with bemusement.

"I imagine it is quite strange." She admits, staring down at him fondly - why, he has no idea - while putting her chin into her open hand. "To wake up and be so different."

He tilts his head in confused wonder and a worrying kind of unease. "You mean, you don't remember?" He wonders with a rush of heartbreak - will he will forget this too? Will he forget his human life?

"Don't worry." Alice is quick to reassure him, shrugging her left shoulder a little. "It's not the usual thing to remember nothing from being human. We don't really know why I don't remember anything - Carlisle thinks it's to do with how I was changed though."

Carlisle? Another vampire? He decides to ask both, while twisting himself into a sitting posistion as well. It takes barely a flicker of a time and he _is_ as graceful as her.

"Calisle is my adopted father," She explains, leaning back in a human sort of way, "- or more accurately put, I suppose, to other vampires, nomads or otherwise, he's the head of our coven. He drinks animal blood, instead of human, like I do - just like you just did - and he's a human doctor. He's back at Grimmauld Place, with the rest of our family, so you'll meet him soon enough." She smiles again, and before he can ponder and react on the "our" comments, adds, "He'll be happy to answer all of your questions, by the way, in any amount of detail." before climbing back to her feet.

He watches as she does and stares, a bit blankly and warily, when she simply holds out a hand towards him.

"Everyone is a bit worried about you," she states with an amused grin, rolling her eyes. "because you're a newborn - as if ever betting against me and Edward is the smart thing to do. Still, Jasper - my mate - is probably pacing the floor and snarling at anyone who speaks to him and will until we get back."

 _Back?_ Ah. Understanding hits. "We're going back there?" Back to his friends, human and blood filled. His throat hisses and burns at the mere idea, even as his stomach sloshes. He internally grimaces, his face remaining outwardly frozen.

Alice tilts her head towards him, her smile still in place, but compassion filling her gaze. "You mean you don't want to?"

Of course, he wants to - he has wanted to be with them all summer long. Now though...? Now he does not trust himself to hold back from _draining_ them, because he _wants_ to.

"You'll be fine, Harry." Alice tells him gently, and she says it so honestly that for a single suspended moment in time, he actually finds himself believing her - believing the almost knowing words that she speaks. That maybe he could handle it; the burn, the want, the risk.

And apparently, again, that is all it truly takes; she moves quickly, unexpectedly, another single flitter of movement, with another apology on her pink lips. There is a flash of purple, and for the second time, his navel tugs and they disappear.

 **.**


	3. Future

**AN:** Thank you all for all of the reviews, favourites and follows! I'm really glad you like this :)

Also, I'm sorry it took me so long to update - I made the mistake of re-reading my work up to yet and fell into my usual trap of wanting to edit, alter, add to, correct mistakes etc. It's usually not a good thing for me to do (unless its completed), as I get off track and decide I dislike it all, and fall into writers block. So, I utterly apologise for that - but, that said, here you go!

Also, due to said editing, I will be combining chapters one and two, so when you guys see this as Chapter 3 again instead of four - well, that's why... I'm sorry!

I'm forcing myself not to re-read again until its all done!

 **.**

 **.**

 **Golden Gazed**

 **.**

 **Part One**

 **.**

 **.**

 **Futures**

 **.**

Alice's lips twist and her nose wrinkles as they land. "I definitely prefer fast cars as a means to travel." She states wryly, a hand delicately being placed upon her stomach. She looks to him, grimacing. "I hope it didn't make your stomach feel _too_ terrible."

Harry, who feels twice as sloshy now, pulls a face at her in response. It is a mixture of an instictual snarl, accusation and shared grimace. He does it, even as he mentally agrees with her former sentence - not that he can ever remember having been in a fast car before.

Not that it matters, he decides, feeling too nauseous to care about much at all; he now dislikes port-keys and there unlucky effects on him enough to agree without proof.

It even takes priority in his brain, strangely enough, over his senses being stolen once more, and his rising annoyance at being hauled about without his consent or foreknowledge.

He finds he doesn't really mind the first time that she did it now though - now that he thinks on it with a somewhat clearer mind. He even feels a little grateful; his throat alone feels a lot better - even if it still _burns_ him like him a torch, rather than the pyre it was - and he feels less vicious because of it. A lot more stated.

"I didn't actually think vampires could feel queasy." He chooses to say instead, his odd new voice a little bewildered. He moves his hands to touch his storming belly. "Not that I really know a lot about vampires." He admits, finding himself easily awed by the feel of his still rather soft skin. Isn't he supposed to feel hard? Like stone incased in goblin steel?

He makes a note to ask, as he takes in a lesser burning breath of uncomfortable no scent, but then notices the clothes that he currently has on instead. He is wearing a black t-shirt, wet with cold splatters of spilt blood, and a pair of dark blue jeans, both which fit him well and aren't baggy in the least.

He licks at it, blood lust apparently not raging but still _there_ , as Alice seems to suddenly notice it too.

She straightens up, her mouth twitching at him, and turns her back on him completely. It causes him to mentally blink in vast surprise at her recklessness and he drops his shirt in response. She is spinning back around just as quickly though, before he can voice on it or do anything to her - _not that he would have_ , he reckons, new and old instincts still battling over the idea.

 _But what vampire does that?_ Everything in him wonders. _Turning their back on a possible threat..._

She smiles widely at him and he sees that she has an emerald green suitcase in her right hand. It is tall, thick and silver outlined, and looks far heavier in regards to human strength than she makes it look with vampiric.

She instantly hands it out to him, neither commenting on - nor admitting - her odd behavior, and states cheerfully that it's for him.

"You'll need to be careful when you open the case though," She tells him, ignoring his still incredulous blank stare, "because you only need to use the _smallest_ amounts of pressure. You are _a lot_ stronger than you were before.

And to answer your comment; yes, we _can_ feel very queasy - and unfortunately, you probably will for a while, at least until you learn to control your lust. If you drink too much and then have to move quickly, it can make you feel quite terrible. And if you eat human food too - that's enough to make any vampire feel awful, least of all because you have to go and force yourself to throw it back up again. We can't digest anything but liquids, and nothing but blood tastes good. It just kind of gets stuck and rots." She pulls a face and Harry internally pulls one too.

Human food does sound unappealing now, he finds. Why any of them would force themselves to eat it...

Abruptly, Alice sighs. It is a deep sound, but there is a fond loving smile on her face. She glances back at the closed doorway, rolls her eyes and then looks him in the eye.

"Seriously, Harry - it's yours, so get changed. I wont take it back if you ask me to and we wont take any money for it - and don't worry," She adds teasingly, "it won't kill you, I promise."

She flitters towards the door, her feet moving in an almost dance. "I'll just go outside while you do though - and then you can meet the rest of the family, okay? You'll like them, honestly."

She speaks it again like it is sure fact and as if it is any worry or concern of his.

"Of course," Alice continues, "they'll be a bit tense around you at first - you're a newborn, you know? But they all like you too - and yes, even Jasper. And he _won't_ hurt you, I promise that too - he's just very scarred and your new instincts will panic at the sight of him."

She pauses for a milisecond, seemingly pondering if she has anything else to say - and then suddenly, coming to a silent conclusion, she removes her tapping finger from her chin, smiles brightly with a shrug, and as quickly as she seemed to have appeared, she waves and is gone again.

The door opens, sound doesn't echo through, and then it shuts again, leaving Harry with his thoughts.

 _What, exactly,_ he wonders rather uneasily, _could scar a vampire?_

 **.**

He stands where he is for seconds on end, thinking, and only knows that because there is now - apparently - a circular clock in his room. It has the moon and sun's cycle on it, he sees, as well as the time and the current date - three whole days after he last recalls, both surprising and unsurprising. An new addition, he knows, chewing on his bloody t-shirt, which has been placed within since his leaving to hunt.

Before, the lone bed he lay on was the only piece of furniture, and now there is that clock, his things - trunk, broom and wand included, thankfully - a mountain of books and, after spinning in place to inspect for any other changes, a long floor length mirror.

He aviods that completely - at least, for now - knowing that he will not like what he sees there; the pale skin instead of his usual tanned, a face that is not the one he recognises and a pair of eyes that do not hold the only piece of his mother that he ever had.

Even thinking about it, thinking of his now red eyes, causes his always-there-this-summer anger to brim and stir dangerously in a way Harry never though himself capable of. Siliva - or is it technically venom? - pools in his mouth and the case handle, still held in his hand, crunches into dust, as his they fist.

The case. He tries to focus on that instead, and it works as a fair distraction, he decides, now that it is not blood that he is after. Now, he only wants to cool raging emotions, and not blood lust.

He puts it onto the floor with as much attempted care as he is capable of, firmly ignoring all else that tries to take his attention. _It is gift, after all,_ he tells himself - something Harry thinks he will always cherish - before he abruptly eyes it warily for all of a second. After quickly coming to an understanding, however - a reassures that Death By Case is as likely as Death By Ribbon; especially, compared to all the other opportunities she has had - he decides to open it, still a little cautious, and sees nothing but clothes. Clothes, and more clothes.

Harry thinks, in all honesty, that he has not seen so many clothes outside of a shop before - and these are all for him? There are jeans on top pants on top of shorts from what he can see, piles and mountains of them; blue, grey, black, green, yellow, red, there are endless shades of each. Flicking them over with an attempted gentle finger - because _how much strength is too much? -_ he notes there are also piles of t-shirts, underwear and socks below them, and below those, there is jackets, jumpers and coats.

He wonders if this case has been magical altered to fit more in and then decides again, that he doesn't really care.

Looking dejectedly at the blood he is to strip away, he pulls off his barely stained jeans instead. It takes him another minute to remove his shirt, but does so, when he realises he can suck on the red ambrosia just as well off his body as on.

Getting re-dressed takes less than a second; his body moves with a single thought alone, and speeds without any at all. He looks down at himself; blue jeans - the type he has always wanted, the type that the Dursley's always refused him - and a white t-shirt of no importance. He shrugs on a green jacket too, which reminds him of his old eyes, more out of habit than want or need.

He doesn't feel cold anymore. He doesn't think he even notices it at all, unlike the heat of the sun, which doesn't negatively effect him either. Though, he admits, the venom which created his new skin does react to it funny now, like he is a created diamond from his old human graphite. He learnt that much at least, thanks to a passing comment by Professor Lupin, and was not surprised by the occasional glimps of his limbs as he lay under the tree covered sunline. Fascinated, but not surprised.

He sighs - again more out of human habit than vampiric want - still wanting the sun on his strange new skin.

 _At least, I can learn how to create a glamour_ , he thinks, mind suddenly tumbling over ideas on how well his magic will work now - now that he is no longer human.

And it _will_ work, he knows; anyone who was once magical kin, will always remain magical kin. Werewolves, of course, being the most known - and also the more bullied, due to their lack of every day strength. He imagines anyone trying to order him now, as a vampire, into surrendering his wand, and actually feels amusement.

How they can send a letter and threaten to take a wand off of someone for defending themselves in the first place though, Harry doesn't know.

He hears the door re-open then, and everything else exits his mind; he straightens up, steps back from the opened case and waits, in a semi crouch, for whatever happens next.

 **.**

It is Alice again, still un-threatening.

She tells him, before she even re-shuts the door, that he is to charm himself with a Bubble Head Charm, and is to be given countless blood pops and lollies. Those, she says, along with his own desire not to harm anyone - "at least, not _really" -_ will apperently be enough for him to see his friends for brief periods of time. See them and not give into the temptation of biting and tearing and drinking.

The spell, she adds happily, sounding amazed once more, will only cover his face and the blood pops, while not real blood - and therefore, not capable of producing the raging blood lust within any of them - is a potion that is made to specifically sooth the throat.

"It is, rumour has it, second only to blood itself." A supposed fact that Harry is eager to test out, the minute she utters it. His own throat, after all, still feels like sand paper and fire and hot sauce, and is still creating more fuel to the flames as the seconds pass. And it is fairly obviously, really, that he does.

She holds them out in their large brown paper bag, as she turns, and Harry is already snatching it out of her reach. She blinks in a not-quite-surprised way and observes him, there, on the opposite side of the room. He stands on his bed, a slight snarl on his lips, and two pops already falling into his awaiting mouth.

He realises, belatedly, that the bag must have been magically reinforced too, because as he sucks - and then wimpers on the clear brilliance _-_ he notes that the bag hasn't been torn or ripped at all with his force - _and he did use force,_ he thinks after the fact, internally grimacing slightly.

Alice pouts a little at him. "No, its alright. I have my own bag. Thank you for asking." She says pointedly, raising an amused eyebrow. Harry ignores her. Later, when he is feeling completely soothed, he will likely feel embarrassed by his actions. As it is though, he has no intentions of sharing any of these. At all.

He could always buy her some another time, he reckons, but these are _his._

It is strange, he realises, observing her back, how he doesn't feel strange at all over the fact that he _will_ fight for them if he has to. Anything to stop the current burning he has - the burning that seems to not want to leave.

 _"_ When does it stop?" He asks, sounded muffled behind the easing sweets. "The burning."

That is the main question he wants to know now - now that he has had his first spill of blood. He mentally decides to find books on vampires and read them all. He otherwise ponders on just how many of these things he can actually buy. His vault is full of gold, after all - and he technically has alot more in the form of a dead basilisk, as well.

He never really wanted to sell it before now - he would have felt kind of bad, he realises, selling it after stabbing in the mouth. He doesn't seem to be bothered about that now though - not if it can get him more of these. Maybe he can even learn to make them himself? Surely he could, if he tried?

Alice grimaces at him, taking a blood pop from her own pocket, and putting it into her mouth. She sighs a little and then sadly admits, too his dawning horror, that it never _actually_ does.

"It get's easier to handle though!" She is quick to assure him. "It's more obvious when your a newborn, like you are - or maybe it's just harder to deal with after all the pain of the transformation? Either way, in a decade or so, it'll be so much easier for you to handle."

He is stunned more than horrified now, though the horror is still there, simmering with his pushed back anger.

" _A decade or so."_ He repeats, before he blinks and slams down on that thought too; he isn't going to think about the years of passage or the possible life spans he could now eclipse - not if he can help it. It causes the anger to resurface. It causes his mouth to produce more and more venom. His strength to show itself. His eyes to see red in a different way. He even scrunches the top of his reinforced bag up with his re-clawing fist, risking the goodness inside, before he mentally forces himself to stop.

Alice seems regretful for only a moment, before it passes utterly. She only states then that it is for the best him to know now, rather than figure it out later, after draining whole forests of their wildlife.

Harry supposes, with a small part of him, that he agrees in that sense - no point in being wasteful of life, especially when they can feed him at a later date. He pops another blood pop in his mouth, trying to control himself and succeeds a little, while he watches Alice walk over to him. She is still being her apparently usual uncautious self, he notes.

She sits down on his bed, legs stretching out and leaning back to stare up at him, sympathetically, not even a metre from him. She tells him in a comforting tone that things will be okay. That he will see.

He echoes the word in his head - and then instantly disbelieves it. He doesn't really think anything has ever been "okay" within his life. It is rubbish, brilliant or deadly. "Okay" is not an option for him. It is even proven by his possibilty of a near eternity with naught but burning pain.

"Let's get your wand." Alice eventually advices, still looking sympathetic and reaching out to gently pat him on his foot. Harry watches it move warily. Her hand doesn't claw, but continues on in an attempt to sooth. He feels confused by the action, even as he kind of recognises it.

Then, he blinks, suddenly noticing that he is barefoot. Is barefoot, and has likely has been since he awoke. He also notes that Alice feels soft to him, and is neither warm nor cold by his own guiding temperature.

"It's been reinforced with magic too." She adds, standing back up easily. "So you don't have to worry about destroying it while you do. It took five professors and three Order members to do it, including a "ward master" and a "curse breaker", but they managed it. Magic really is fascinating, isn't it?" She looks up at him, almost awaiting an answer, and he abruptly understands - understands that she didn't know of magic before this. Whatever _this_ is - her helping him.

It isn't really a surprising fact to him, exactly, when he thinks on it - at least, after his initial shock. The chances of them both being magical and vampire are extremely slim, after all. The chances of being magical alone is small enough, a barely there percentage, which exists in the hidden depths of the average world. A magical turned vampire? Well, that is two small circles of population overlaping.

Not to mention, that managing to find one such person willing to help him in the small space of time that he will have needed it...? In _England_? Unlikely.

It does cause him to wonder how she knows of it _now_ though. _Did someone tell her, break their own laws - the one that_ no one _breaks - just to help me?_

He asks her, head tilted, and she smiles back, almost teasing in her expression and response. For a whole second, he is nothing more than confused.

"Well, that's the question, isn't it?" Her eyes shine brightly, as she messes with her fingers, clasping them before her. "Technically, by your ministries law, no one actually _did_ tell me - at least, _not yet_ anyway, and now they never will, so..." She shrugs, and then catching his eyes, explains, "I would have been told in the future, if we hadn't have altered that path to create this one."

He echoes the sentences, repeats the wording, and it takes another moment to undersand her possible meaning - blurry images of smokey burning essence in the air, a woman with too big glasses, rasping out a prophecy.

"You're a Seer?" _A better one as well than that awful teacher too, if she can remember what she sees_. _Unless, someone told her about it afterwards?_

Alice laughs in reply - it is all wry amusement and self-realisation. "Apparently, I am, by your worlds Titles. I always called myself a physic before, though - and I hadn't met anyone like me, in all my years. Then, I get here and visions are hitting me every other moment - I couldn't even get a minutes peace at first, you know - and then, I suddenly See that there's a large hall full of other peoples visions and prophecies in England alone, as well."

She shakes her head and smiles brightly at him. "I can't wait for you to look about the other countries way of doing magic. either - in America and Greece they have even _more_ prophecies there,and in India there's going to be a person like me too. Only he's not a vampire, and he's a bit... skittish, I guess?" She tilts her head a little and admits, "Unsurprising, really - especially, because he's so young at the moment and is so easily afraid."

She looks deeply saddened, but then she pushes it away. She smiles again, and spins around with speed, grasps his wand and delicately hands it to him. He takes it quickly, without any thought at all in the movement - only that she is holding _his_ wand and she shouldn't be - and warmth flutters from his wand to his hand, causing red and gold sparks to fly.

It instantly reminds him of stupify and golden crossed dome's, with Pheonix song lilting in the background.

Fawkes, he realises uneasily - it is Fawkes who told him not to eat him and who stayed throughout all of his pain, weaving hope into his skin. _He owes the immortal being far more than he ever did_ , he thinks, _giving him hope in that darkest fiery depths of change_ , even as he outwardly asks Alice the list of questions pacing his head at her monologue.

Alice replies easily to his interest, though she encourages him to produce the Bubble Head first - and after a slight second, he does so. His wand works as well as always, though his magic is a little harder to push out. Annoying, but not hindering. He puts it into his pocket immediately afterwards and listens intently, and continues to do so, until she leads him out the door, two minutes later.

He learns that she really is a _real_ Seer. That she has been having visions ever since she was changed in nineteen twenty, by an unknown vampire. Her first vision, she tells him fondly, was of her mate, Jasper, and of them both feeding on animals together with the family - of which there is apperently seven of, including them.

She says that she knew straight away that it was possible to live that way, and has fed on them ever since. She adds, unasked, that the only consequence of the oddness of their diet is weaker strength and thier golden gazes. The positives include stronger emotional connections and not being so controlled by blood lust.

She also informs him, getting back on track, on how it works for her - so very different, really, from the prophecy he heard. How what she Sees at any set point, reflects on what other people's actions and choices are. That the main problem predicting things with certainty is that it the future is rarely a certainty, until minutes or seconds before.

Some things, she adds, do come to her with high percentages though - like, it turns out, the original chance of him finding _them_ months from now _,_ before they apperently decided to come to him, instead.

Harry doesn't quite know what to say to that and so he simply doesn't say anything at all.

She smiles at him regardless and carefully takes his hand.

 **.**


End file.
